Long Bright River: A Novel by Liz Moore Read Free Book Online

the back of the classroom. It was, no doubt, not entirely our teachers’ fault. Our classrooms were full to capacity, thirty generally rowdy students in a small space. It was all they could do to survive.
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    Still: being at Hanover was the only reason we were going to see The Nutcracker. Sometimes Philadelphia’s public school students had things given to them in a way that parish school children did not. The city bestowed upon its public schools charity of various kinds: coats, meant to keep us warm in winter; school supplies, meant to keep us engaged in our classwork; cultural outings, meant to allow us a few hours to ponderthe large questions of life that are usually reserved for the idle rich. In this case, the outing was a prize awarded to students who sold the most wrapping paper in an annual fund-raiser—a challenge Kacey and I had taken very seriously, going door to door every weekend all fall. In fact, we had come in first and second place.
    I, for one, was delighted.
    I had worn a dress that day, my only dress, which Gee had brought home from Village Thrift in a rare moment of frivolity. The dress was beautiful, I thought: a blue cotton summer dress with white flowers on the bodice. But it was two years old by then and far too small, and over it, Gee had forced me to wear a boy’s blue parka that had belonged to Bobby, a cousin of ours on our mother’s side. It hadn’t ever been washed, this jacket. It was salt-stained and slightly acrid-smelling, like Bobby himself. Beneath it, the dress looked stupid: I knew this even then. But I had never been to a ballet before, and I don’t know why, but I wanted to demonstrate my respect, to acknowledge in some way the gravity of the occasion. So I wore it, and I wore the blue parka on top of it, and after lunch I waited in a long school hallway for the buses to arrive, standing in line with everyone else, reading my book.
    Kacey, just ahead of me, was as usual surrounded by friends.
    When it was time to board, I followed my sister up the steps of the vehicle, and then followed her toward the back of the bus, and sat down one seat behind her. It was a choice meant to assure my peers of my independence and myself of Kacey’s proximity. Her presence in any situation, familial or educational, tended to reassure me.
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    There was a bright and funny music teacher that year, Mr. Johns, who had orchestrated the whole thing. He was young—probably younger than I am today—and the next year he was snatched up by a better school in the suburbs. As the buses approached City Hall, he stood up at the front of ours and clapped his hands twice and then held his right hand up in the air, two fingers extended, the sign that was supposed to mean quiet. Everyone was then obliged to return the salute. As usual, I waited until someone else did it first, and then raised my hand into the air, relieved.
    —Listen up, said Mr. Johns. What are the rules we talked about in class?
    —Don’t talk! someone shouted.
    —One, said Mr. Johns, holding up a thumb.
    —Don’t kick the seat in front of you! said the same person.
    —Okay, said Mr. Johns. Not one of the ones we mentioned, but true.
    Tentatively, he held up a second finger.
    —Anyone else? he said.
    I knew an answer. It was Wait to clap until you hear others clapping. I didn’t say it.
    —Wait to clap until you hear others clapping, said Mr. Johns.
    —Number four, sit still, said Mr. Johns.
    —Number five, no whispering with your friends, said Mr. Johns. No giggling. No squirming around in your seat like a kindergartner.
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    He had told us all the story of the ballet in music class the week before. In it, a little girl lives in a mansion, he said. This is in the olden days, he said, so everyone onstage will be wearing old-fashioned clothes.
    He paused to think.
    —Also, the men wear tights, he said, so get over it in advance. The little girl’s parents have a Christmas party and invite her spooky uncle,